


Oh Crowley, dear

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BDSM, Crowley loves it, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Impact Play, M/M, Masochism, Spanking, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), he looks like a sweetheart but in reality he's a bastard, he uses 'that' tone very often
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: i'm in love with this fandom and yet, for some reason, i haven't written anything for it! here's some long-overdue dom!aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 74





	Oh Crowley, dear

**Author's Note:**

> i'm in love with this fandom and yet, for some reason, i haven't written anything for it! here's some long-overdue dom!aziraphale.

Oh Crowley,  _ dear _

It was never the tone. It was never about the tone. Those syllables traipsing off his lips in that Winnie the Pooh-esque fashion: whimsical and airy. A childlike and polite lilt. If anyone overheard they'd be none the wiser. But Crowley  _ knew _ . That tone was only reserved for his astute ears. And he knew what it meant. Crowley had fucked up… and  _ bad _ . It wasn't anything morally dubious, nor was it illegal in 24 countries — the act itself was harmless to the naked eye. But not to Aziraphale. Explicitly stating that Crowley avoids doing it or risk something  _ very bad _ . A spark of  _ something  _ and  _ everything  _ blitzing through his spinal cord as he was caught in the act. Slit pupils dilating disk-like orbs on his irises, hands trembling ever so slightly, knees weak as soup. 

"You know not to do that, don't you  _ dear _ ," he said, voice light and airy.

"I wasn't doin' nothin'" the demon replied, mind racing with all the things he could be punished with. He was caught in an act he'd barely even completed and Aziraphale was  _ pissed _ . Hands hidden in bomber jacket pockets, clammy and dripping in sweat. The offending object in hand, slowly crumbling under his grip. He took one look at Aziraphale's deceptively soft look before the angel turned on his heels, never looking back to make sure Crowley was following because he knew Crowley knew his place. He  _ always  _ knew his place. 

\-----

_ I'd have you whipped if I wasn't so fond of you _

_ Then why don't you, angel _

\-----

"What did I tell you,  _ Crowley _ ?" Aziraphale hummed, like a soft scold from a well-meaning parent. Emphasis on the  _ Crowley _ . Laid on top of his soft lap, bare ass hitting the warm bookshop air. The store wasn't open but when was it ever? Windows shut and curtains drawn. A gentle hand resting at the small of his back, the other stroking his hair, fingers carding through dark locks. Crowley shut his eyes. So used to having sunglasses that most lights stung just the  _ tiniest _ bit. Face flushing the more he ignored his angel… he'd regret that,  _ probably _ . 

_ Crowley dear.  _

That fucking voice.  **_That one_ ** . He  _ knew _ what it did to him. The  _ things  _ it made him feel. Patient and caring yet with such an intensity to it. 

" _ Fuck. Angel, _ " he muttered, back arching. "You're overreacting. 's just a biscuit,"

"It's more than just the biscuit, dear," he replied, yanking Crowley back by the roots of his hair. Scalp burning and neck bared. "I  _ asked _ you very nicely, didn't I. It's not about  _ what _ I asked, dear, it's about being obedient," he answered, hand coming down firmly. It wasn't as hard as they both knew he could hit but it still took Crowley by surprise. The soft sting that melted into his skin. The harsh sound. And the slutty whine that escaped his throat. “About being  _ good _ ,” he muttered. Another smack. “Don’t you want to be good for me,  _ dear _ ?” Aziraphale was very  _ firm _ on how he handled him; strict and unforgiving — each detail being nitpicked and scanned by his watchful eye. Crowley loved that about him.  _ Nothing  _ got passed him. Boy did Crowley try (and fail). 

"You will count to twenty and once you realise what you have done, you will apologise to me," he stated, voice crisp and fully enunciated; soft mask falling ever so slightly to reveal Aziraphale for who he truly was. He was always a bit of a bastard. Hand coming down in fast succession as Crowley tried to keep up, voice straining and head spinning. He was being lenient today. That's what excited him the most, in all honesty. He was being  _ nice _ and it still took Crowley apart in indescribably rotten ways. Well-timed, well-aimed, and harsh swats to his backside — eyes watering after each hit. Serpentine hisses escaping him as he was on his fourteenth, backs of thighs burning and addled with heat. Heady and indulgent. Leaning into each hit with masochistic enthusiasm. Stopping after the sixteenth. 

" _ My… _ are you alright, dear?" he asked. They both knew the demon could take  _ much more _ than this. He was an occult being after all. Aziraphale only asked to poke the bear. 

"Just fine," Crowley squeezed, voice taut and whiny. A tear spilling from the intensity. The room fell into a comfortable silence, Aziraphale's warm hand leaving to grab  _ something _ . He knew  _ exactly _ what it was once it hit him.  _ Martinet.  _ Used to punish French students back when  _ that  _ was still allowed. A high pitched yelp being torn from his throat as each tail whipped against his backside, searing trails burned into pale skin. Reducing him to a puddle of endorphins and broken moans. Hips rocking against Aziraphale's lap. He wouldn't necessarily call himself a painslut but he certainly was masochistically inclined… a tad more than your average submissive. He never really considered himself a sub, but he supposed that was what you'd call it. After all, he  _ loved _ how he handled him. Last four hits melting into his skin… time melting into an abstract concept. He stopped hitting him but the pain still lingered the same; endorphins at an all-time high. It felt like he never crashed with Aziraphale. He knew he did. Logically, he  _ had  _ to. But the utter sensation of abject devotion and loyalty remained like an ulcer on his gums. In this very moment in time, Aziraphale was the greatest thing to him since sliced bread.

“Let’s get you patched up,” Aziraphale said and Crowley sulked. He didn’t  _ want _ the scene to end. Maybe the angel spoiled him rotten, but scenes usually were a lot longer than this. He desired  _ more _ . He  **needed** more. And he’d beg, eyes watery and brows furrowed in mock anger, as he nuzzled into Aziraphale.

“ ‘ziraphale  _ fuck… please _ .”


End file.
